A Double Date
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: When Greg complains to John that he can't seem to arrange a date with Mycroft, John offers to lend a hand. But, of course, with the Holmes brothers involved it can't be that easy... can it?  T for language and some mild fluff, but nothing graphic.


**A Double Date**

Just a quick note, there's some lines in German and French. I've provided a translation underneath, in italics and square brackets, like this:  
>Bonjour.<br>[_Hello._]

If there's something wrong with the translations, I can only apologise and ask that you let me know so that I can correct it. I've had a year out from French and I've forgotten most of it, and I've only been learning German for a few months...

Reviews are always welcome; flames accepted, with constructive criticism! **  
><strong>

~Mei

* * *

><p><strong>A Double Date<strong>

Greg groaned and buried his head in his pint.

"I swear, John, it's killing me." John offered a supportive smile. "I wanted to ask the other day, but he keeps changing the topic; leaving. I swear, it's like he knows what I'm going to say." John laughed.

"He's a Holmes, what do you expect?" Greg sighed and took another pull of his beer.

"I know, I know. It's just not fair. I know he wants me, so I can't work out why he won't let me ask." He went quiet for a minute.

"What about… what if you didn't ask him? What if somebody else did?"

"Jesus, John. I'm not in primary school. Can you imagine;" Greg put on the wheedling, high-pitched voice of a pre-pubescent boy. "Excuse me, Mr Holmes? My friend Greg really fancies you." They both laughed.

"No, I'm serious. Get yourself to the new Italian in Whitehall, and I'll get Mycroft there." John drained his pint and Greg did likewise.

"I'll be there."

Sherlock was glaring at his microscope when John walked in.

"Why isn't it working, John? I know I'm right, so why won't it work?" John shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the back of his armchair.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Have you just got a bad sample?" Sherlock's eyes lit up. He scrambled across the table for the dish of… John didn't want to consider what it was, contenting himself with the flash of bare skin where Sherlock's shirt rode up his back. Within moments, Sherlock was jumping from his seat with a hiss of "Yes!" He padded across the floor to where John sat at his computer. He kissed him gently on the side of his neck.

"You're a genius, have I ever told you that?" John laughed gently.

"No, you haven't."

"Well, you are. What would I do without you?"

"Starve. What do you want for dinner?" Sherlock hummed; a disgruntled sound. "Tell you what, if you eat now I'll make chocolate sauce later." Sherlock's eyes lit up, but he pouted. "Alright. Chocolate sauce, honey and cream." Sherlock grinned and moved to set the table. Since he'd been dating John his tidiness had increased tenfold; rarely would you find bits of dead humans in the food fridge anymore.

"Pasta. Pasta will do." John locked his computer and hauled himself out of his seat. He began to pull ingredients out of the cupboards.

"Meatballs or bolognaise?" Sherlock turned and shot a heated look at John, who blushed furiously. He knew what was coming next.

"You know I'd rather have balls in my mouth." John turned positively scarlet and made a choking noise. As the meat and sauce (John didn't think he could endure watching Sherlock eat meatballs) simmered and the pasta boiled, John moved to the sofa where Sherlock was sat. He nuzzled into the junction between his neck and shoulder. When Sherlock turned to capture his lips, John pulled back. Sherlock whined.

"Can you do me a favour?" Sherlock hummed his question. "Can you arrange to meet Mycroft at the new Italian in Whitehall?" Sherlock pulled back with a startled look.

"Why?" he demanded. John returned to the kitchen and drained the pasta. Sherlock pounced/leaped/rolled off the sofa and stalked him into the kitchen. He used his superior height to pin John to the counter. "Why?" he demanded again. "Are you leaving me for him? Were you only using me in order to get with hi-" Sherlock's tirade was cut off prematurely as John pressed his lips against his for a smouldering kiss.

"No! He's what, ten years my senior, and balding. No thanks, I'd rather have my eyeballs replaced with my tonsils. No, I'm trying to set him up with Greg." Sherlock looked placated for a moment, then scowled.

"Why do I have to arrange it? Why can't you just tell Mycroft to be there?" John grinned and leaned forward in Sherlock's arms.

"Do you remember how we got together?" he whispered into his ear, gently running a hand over his chest. Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded. Of course he did. Aggravated by a lack of case he had raided the alcohol cupboard. On arriving home John had been 'greeted' by a tipsy Sherlock. It had turned out he was a sweet, clingy, honest drunk. John had woken with Sherlock in his arms and 'I LOVE YOU' scrawled across his abdomen in Sharpie. "Sometimes there need to be a catalyst. For us, the alcohol. For them… well, we both know Greg won't let it be alcohol. So we'll have to be the catalyst." Sherlock's eyes had misted over as he remembered that night. They cleared, now, and he turned from John to pull his phone from his trouser pocket.

**The Italian at Whitehall. Monday, 7pm. –SH**

John had finished serving up the meal when Sherlock's phone beeped with an incoming text.

**Why? MH.**

It was concise and yet still conveyed all the emotion it needed to. It was so much like Mycroft.

**Just be there. –SH**

They had finished their meals and Sherlock was washing up when he finally got a reply.

**What are you planning this time? MH.**

**For once, just do it. –SH**

**I'll be there. MH.**

Sherlock returned his phone back to his pocket.

"He'll be there." He sighed and picked up his violin.

"I've booked a table for two at seven." Sherlock stopped playing and shot a puzzled look.  
>"For two?"<p>

"Of course." Sherlock frowned.

"Why not four?"

"It's a date. Their first date. Why would it be a table for four?"

"You said we were the catalyst. A catalyst must be present to work." It was a statement, one that asked for no response.

"Sherlock! We're not going to crash their date." He pouted.

"Too late. I've just changed the booking." John let out a strangled sound.

"You're impossible!"

"But you love me." John snorted.

"I wonder why, sometimes."

Mycroft was already seated when John and Sherlock arrived. After placating Sherlock, convincing him that he would never leave him through an imaginative use of chocolate sauce and honey, he had texted Greg to tell him about the complications. The DI had taken it rather well, considering. Mycroft stood as they approached the table.

"I'm flattered, Sherlock. You've dressed up for the occasion. This must be important." Sherlock had, at John's insistence, worn a suit; ("If we're crashing their date, we're doing it in style"). He was in a form-fitting black suit and purple silk shirt, with a black skinny tie. John was also in a suit; Sherlock had tried to convince him to wear his No 1s, but John had refused. He was in a slim grey jacket and trousers, with a pale blue shirt and a dark blue tie. Mycroft, of course, was in his usual three-piece-suit. Today he'd accessorised with a platinum pocket watch and cufflinks. His umbrella was leant against his chair.

"John insisted".

"The table is set for four." Mycroft's face suddenly went horrifically pale. John stepped forward, fearing the man would collapse. "You haven't invited Mummy, have you?" Sherlock laughed.

"No. I'm not a masochist and I would never subject John to that. Not willingly." John twined his fingers through Sherlock's, and the taller man leant into him.

"Then whom?" The door to the exclusive little restaurant opened and Greg Lestrade stepped in. his eyes scanned the tables until they came to rest on Mycroft. He smiled and fidgeted nervously with his tie as he approached the table. He was in a dark grey suit with a pale pink shirt and grey check tie. Mycroft's eyes widened slightly and he licked his lips.

"Umm, hi." Greg started awkwardly.

"Good evening, Gregory." The four of them sat down to the table and the maître d' approached.

"Good evening, sirs." He handed them menus; small cards in a modern style. "Tonight's specials are a chicken and chorizo risotto, mushroom cannelloni, and brazed leg of lamb, soaked in red wine, served with Italian truffles. All dishes are hand prepared so if there is something you would like adding or removing, or if you have a specific dietary requirement, then please just let us know." He pulled out a lighter and lit the candles on the table. "Shall I send the wine waiter over?" Mycroft made a gesture that indicated he should indeed. The maître d' backed away and the wine waiter moved in to take his place. They let Mycroft choose the wine and conversation settled into the realm of small talk.

"The lasagne looks nice." John commented.

"Hmm… I'd have thought you'd go for the lamb." Greg observed. "More manly." He winked at John. Mycroft, seated to John's left and opposite from Greg, choked on the sip of water he'd just taken. Sherlock levelled a glare at the DI, and John just grinned at his lover, sat opposite from him.

"I think I'll have meatballs," Mycroft said. "With the sweetbreads to start." This time it was John who gagged on the mouthful of bread he'd just taken. Sherlock snorted and Greg just frowned.

"I thought you were watching your weight. There's an awful amount of fat in that," he shot a look at John, "salt too." This time John needed assistance to stop him from choking. By the time they had ordered, everybody had turned puce through an embarrassed lack of air.

"So then. What's this about?" Mycroft began.

"Catalysts," Sherlock replied. He shot him a puzzled look. "John said that he and I were catalysts to your relationship." John blushed, and threw Greg an apologetic smile. Mycroft frowned.  
>"Gregory and I do not need assistance with our relationship."<p>

"Actually, Myc, I asked John to help." Mycroft passed a startled look to his partner. Sherlock's hand twitched towards his phone, desperately denying the urge to take a photograph. "You kept avoiding the topic every time I tried to suggest going out. I was… worried that you didn't want to take it further. John offered to help." Mycroft had the good grace to blush.

"I don't recall you ever asking."  
>"That's because you wouldn't let me!" Greg hissed. "It was like you were scared of us getting any further than first base. Jesus, anyone would think you were a virgin!" Mycroft went pale and looked away. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother.<p>

"C'est vrai ?"

[_It's true?_]

"Ja."

[_Yes._]

"Mais, j'ai pensé que… avec Alistair. Quand tu étais à la Fac ? J'ai tort ?"

[_But, I thought that… with Alistair. When you were at Uni? __Am I wrong?_]

"Nein. Ich konnte nicht."

[_No. I couldn't._]

"Doux Jésus, Mycroft. On me traite la vierge ? Tu as quarante-trois ans !"

[_Jesus Mycroft. They call me the virgin? __You're forty-three!_]

"Ich weiss, Sherlock. Das musst du mir nicht sagen."

[_I know Sherlock. You don't have to remind me._]

"Mais… Mon Dieu. Comment ça se fait que je ne l'ai jamais su?"

[_But… Christ. How could I have never known?_]

"Ich gehe damit nicht hausieren."

[_I don't exactly advertise the fact._]

"…Merde."

[_…Shit._]

"Genau."

[_Precisely._]

"Care to explain that to us?" John asked, kicking Sherlock in the shin under the table. Sherlock let out a small yelp before pouting at his partner.

"I was asking Mycroft about a small personal issue that he asked for my aid in. I presumed he wouldn't want the matter publicised around the restaurant."

"Bullshit." John didn't hesitate in his comeback.

"I beg your pardon?"

"One, Mycroft would never ask for your help. Two, if he did you'd have brought it up, if only to ridicule him. Three, I mightn't have done French for near twenty years but I know you asked about Alistair, in University." If Sherlock's jaw could've disengaged itself it would have been running round in circles on the floor.

"Whilst my brother and I do not get along, if I need him, or he I, then we would be there for the other." Mycroft supplied. Sherlock recovered himself and reached over to take John's hand. He pressed a chaste kiss to the pulse point at his wrist, and John's cheeks darkened, remembering the poignancy of that spot.

"Please," he breathed, looking at his lover through his lashes. "Drop this. For me." John looked like he wanted to press the issue, but held his tongue.

"Danke, Bruder." Sherlock inclined his head to Mycroft. To save further awkwardness, the starters arrived.

[_Thank you, brother._]

"How can they not have something with chocolate sauce?" Sherlock whined. John and Greg, by this time, had had a little too much to drink. Greg's advantage in height and weight more than compensated for his age, thus making John the most drunk at the table.

"You and your obsession with chocolate sauce," John slurred. "What is that about?"

"It tastes nice. Especially when being eaten off your skin." In his alcohol-fuzzed state John believed this to be a perfectly normal declaration for a dinner table. He took it upon himself to show his partner just how much he appreciated him and his attention. With surprising dexterity considering his level of inebriation, John slipped off his shoes and extended his sock-covered foot towards Sherlock's leg. Fortunately for John, the distance across the table was relatively small. However, he failed to account for the following:

Sherlock was 6' tall.

Lestrade was only an inch shorter.

They would be rather cramped together.

Their legs would be indistinguishable under the table.

As such, things didn't exactly quite go to plan.

Greg started a little as he felt a foot run invitingly up the back of his calf. He glanced up at Mycroft, but the man was involved in a heated debate with Sherlock about the political meaning and motivation behind Bach's work. John seemed a little distracted, starting intensely at Sherlock as if he were watching for a reaction. Greg looked back at Mycroft. Could he just not be showing what he was doing; teasing Greg? Huh. Of course he could! He was practically the British government! Greg leant back in his seat to give Mycroft better access. The foot slid up and down his calf a few times before slipping to the inside of his thigh. He let out a small gasp ad the toes barely, just gently, grazed across his crotch. Mycroft turned and arched a brow in his direction. Greg smiled back coyly and arched his hips into the contact. The foot pressed a little harder, and Greg grinned at his boyfriend. Mycroft frowned and glanced down briefly; one hand slipping from the table, before turning back to his argument with Sherlock. Greg's phone buzzed in his pocket and he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning.

**What are you grinning about? MH. x**

**You. And your feet ;) GL x**

**My feet? Have I missed something, or is this a new fetish I should know about? MH. x**

**Stop being a tease. You know what you're doing ;o GL x**

The foot pressed particularly hard and Greg's breathing became slightly erratic.

**I'm arguing Sherlock, and wondering why you're so flushed. MH. x**

**What you're doing with your feet. GL x**

**They're currently crossed, one ankle tucked behind the other… are you seriously getting off on this? MH. x**

**It's hard not to get off on this. GL x**

Greg began to rub against the foot in earnest. It wasn't enough stimulation to do anything other than get him hot and bothered, and Mycroft would know that, be he was damned if he wouldn't try. Of course, being sat next to him, Sherlock couldn't help but notice what was going on. It didn't take a genius to come to the conclusion that it was Mycroft at the root of Greg's… discomfort.

"T'es obligé ?"

[_Must you?_]

"Muss ich was?"

[_Must I what?_]

"Si je peux me retenir de toucher John, tu peux te garder de faire du pied à Greg !"

[_If I can keep my hands off John, you can keep your feet off Greg!_]

"Meine füße sind nicht mal in Gregs Nähe!"

[_My feet are nowhere near Greg!_]

"Alors qui…?"

[_Then whom…?_]

They both looked towards John, who was looking somewhere in the distance between Sherlock's eyes, completely oblivious. Mycroft went an odd shade of green, and began to type furiously on his BlackBerry.

**That's not my foot. MH.**

Greg near shot from his seat.

**Whose bloody foot is it then? GL **

**Take a wild guess… I'll give you a clue; Sherlock's not that bendy. MH. x**

By now the entire table was staring at John. He was still staring at Sherlock, only now he was frowning. Slowly, it began to dawn on John that Sherlock was staring back. He also got that prickly feeling that other people were staring at him. To him, there was only one possible reason for this.

"I'm sorry, miles away. What was the question." This was addressed to nobody in particular. Or perhaps to the small flower in the middle of the table; it was hard to tell when he was drunk.

"John, nobody asked anything." Sherlock supplied, calmly.

"But… why is everyone staring at me?" John's face was a picture of innocent confusion. Mycroft reached out and laced his fingers with Greg, each showing the other that they understood that it was an accident.

"John, what were you doing with your feet?" Sherlock began gently. John grinned at him, but Sherlock remained stoic.

"What, you didn't enjoy it?"

"No. It wasn't my crotch." That caught John's attention something fierce. He flushed bright red.

"What?" To John's drink-muffled ears, that was a sharp hiss. To everybody else in the restaurant, they'd just been transported back to the parade square, with John as their Drill Instructor. Sherlock shushed him with a finger pressed to his lips.

"It wasn't my crotch. It was Greg's." John's face was a mask of horror as he slid his gaze across to Greg. His mouth opened to say something, but he just spluttered. Sherlock, realising John was in a state of shock, raised his hand to cup his cheek. "It's ok. We know you didn't mean it. No hard feelings." Greg snorted into his glass.

"Speak for yourself." The crass humour seemed to take the tension and throw it to the wind. John started to giggle, which set Greg off. This in turn made Mycroft smile; and Sherlock thought he ought to join in too. Within the minute they were all giggling like a group of schoolgirls discussing their crushes. As they finished their drinks, Mycroft called for the bill. He paid, naturally, and sent a text to his driver to meet them outside in five minutes. By the time they had made it out the sleek black car was pulled up by the pavement. They all clambered inside; though some with far less elegance than others… the pointed looks here go to John. As the car slid into the dwindling traffic of inner-city London, they relaxed into the plush leather, comfortable in the knowledge that they were in the company of friends and lovers.


End file.
